


Hunters Roasting On An Open Fire

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Christmas, Gen, Holiday, Humor, On-the-hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: They come at night... by the dozen.





	Hunters Roasting On An Open Fire

**Author's Note:**

> For a fill-in-the-blank Christmas carol challenge at Tumblr - mine was "The Christmas Song", better known as "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire".

Dean and Sam edged toward the door of the old, stately home. The crunches called out from under the hunters’ boots with every step, sharp like screams. It felt as loud to their ears as the crack of the shotgun had been moments earlier.

“Creepy little suckers,” Dean muttered.

Sam eyed a misshapen snowman just off the porch, and he shivered in the frosty, sleet-packed gusts, though it wasn’t for long - as the door opened on its own with an ominous creak, the furnace-like air in the house practically slapped them in the face. 

The brothers shared a  _look_ , then continued on.

As they crossed the worn welcome mat, the door slammed itself shut, the heavy bolt lock clicking into place, causing both men to whip around, Sam’s blade at the ready, Dean giving the shotgun a preemptive pump.

The house moaned a greeting. The enormous fireplace roared, popped off sparks for good measure. Giggles ricocheted off the walls. And then, the whispered singing began.

_Run, run, fast as you can…_

“Where is that  _coming_ from?” asked Sam.

Dean pointed with the barrel of the shotgun to the entirety of their surroundings, implying  _everywhere;_ the uptick of skittering - in the walls, across the ceiling, up the stairs, and under the furniture - confirmed it.

“Guess the ones outside had a lot of friends,” Sam noted.

“What, a baker’s dozen?” Dean asked with a crooked grin; Sam’s raised eyebrow ushered it away.

Down the darkened hall, a tiny house rested near the wall, perfect from graham eaves to gumdrop trim, barely illuminated by the moonlight pushing through a snow-caked window. Dean didn’t hesitate to fire into it, shells filled with a rock salt-rock candy combo, turning the structure to chunky bits. Sam tossed a vial of blessed pine oil, followed by a lighter, onto the pile. 

No sooner had it gone ablaze, five of the creatures came out shrieking, running, lighting up the shadows. Dean nailed three in one shot. Sam’s blade, coated in a poinsettia tincture, pinned another to the wall. And the mostly-scorched fifth scrambled away.

The next part happened quickly. Blade retrieved, Sam was right behind Dean when he burst into the huge dining room. A glow, not unlike that coming from the candles atop the table, flickered from an unlit corner. The song had turned chant.

_RUN! RUN! FAST AS YOU CAN!_

And there it was, the escapee, coming right at them, head flaming, raisin eyes melting, determined expression in check, but it went to shock in a hot second.

Blast hit target. Crumbs flew. The night went silent, and the brothers took the moment to note what was on the table. Laid neatly were innumerable tiny carving knives, and in the center a giant silver platter, all glinting in the candlelight.

“So they’re cannibals?” Dean asked.

“Technically not  _cannibals_ , or they’d be eating each  _other_ —”

“Fine. They’re frikkin’  _carnivore_ gingerbread men!”

A crash from the next room, another shared  _look_ , and through the open pocket door they went. In the kitchen, gingerbread men spilled from the flaming oven, all of them crispy, blackening in the fire, perhaps in some sort of solidarity with their fallen brethren, and they quickly met the same fate, those not succumbing to the burn meeting their end by shot and stab. The last, a quite bold one, sharpened candy cane shiv in hand, leapt into the air right at Sam when his back was turned, and Dean had none of it, pulverizing the creature mid-flight.

 They did the same to the houses, some mansion-sized, that lined every counter, every  _surface_ , until there was no sign of more, no skitters, no giggles, no songs. But now, rooms checked, back in the den, ready to leave, they hesitated. Breaths of iced crystals floated from their lips, stifling heat be damned. The cavernous fireplace seemed to widen its maw, enough to where they saw the broiled skeletons with their picked-clean bones.

“The owners?” Sam whispered, and Dean answered with a nod.

An old woman in an apron sticky with dough and sprinkles appeared, more of her cookie army sneaking through vents, crawling out of drawers, slinking from under cushions, herding their enemies to the fire, ready to roast their meal. 

The ghost witch cackled, her transparent form glitching, then turning solid. “Fools!” she cried. “You think you’ve beaten me! My plan has worked for centuries, luring hunters to a remote home each year when the solstice is—”

Sam’s blade sailed right into her forehead, a touch of a cranberry scent wafting from the wound, and the wee men fell to sugared dust.

“Man, I hate exposition,” Dean commented, then added, “Heh. I guess that’s how the cookie crumbles.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

Quick work was made of the house, a little Latin said as they watched the flames grow tall, and they left, satisfied. Back at their motel, the typical post-hunt celebratory beers were eschewed, instead falling into bed for their much-earned long winter’s nap. But at precisely midnight, when it was officially Christmas Eve, tinkling bells and a familiar melody filled the air. 

They each turned in their respective beds, facing one another, frowning. Sam slammed his hand atop the clock radio on the bedside table a few times. The carol stopped. Shrugs were exchanged. Eyes were closed. Blankets were pulled tighter. Pillows were hugged. The hum of the heater was the only sound.

Until.

_….nipping at your nose, Yuletide carols being sung by a choir…._

“Nope,” Dean announced, sitting up and turning, banging a fist against the wall. “Pipe down!” he yelled.

“Dean, nobody’s in the next room - we’re on the end,” Sam reminded him.

Dean began to get out of bed to bang on the opposite wall, but stopped - it was quiet once again. But this time when he laid down, he stayed on his back, didn’t burrow, didn’t get comfortable. He was prepped to pounce, merely resting his eyes.

It was the smell of smoke and drips of frosting glopping onto their faces that caused them to stir, the return of the chant which woke them all the way.

_Run, run, fast as you can…_

Dean and Sam gasped in sync at the sight of the human-sized gingerbread on the ceiling, flames surrounding it, glaring down at them, baring its glittering teeth as it hissed.

_…you can’t catch me - I’m the gingerbread man!_

Scrambling for their weapons, Dean suddenly just  _knew_ , and he shouted, “Nice touch, you sonnuvabitch!”

As the shots and groans and punches rang out, the horned, cloaked figure leaning against the Impala finished off his cookie. [“Hot damn, I love these guys,” Krampus said](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061634) to himself with a laugh; and then, louder:

“See you next year!”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


End file.
